


No Knot Unties Itself

by BrighteyedJill



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Apologies, BDSM, Blushing, Collars, Dirty Talk, Dom Bucky Barnes, Dom Drop, Dom/sub, Fighting is like therapy right?, Headspace, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Misunderstandings, Obedience, Objectification, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Protective Natasha, Rope Bondage, Spanking, Sub Steve Rogers, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 05:23:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4250940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Back then, Bucky had been sure of what Steve wanted, sure as he was of his own name. Nowadays, he’s only 87% sure of his name, and he has no idea what Steve really wants. That doesn't mean he's going to stop trying to find out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Knot Unties Itself

**Author's Note:**

  * For [paradigm_shift](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradigm_shift/gifts).



Bucky shoves the ball of his foot gently against Steve’s ribs, and smiles when there’s almost no give. Steve’s been holding this position—on all fours, straight back, head down—for more than an hour now. He’s starting to sweat. Not because he’s tired, Bucky knows--Captain goddamn America could hold this pose in his sleep—but from anticipation. 

From the moment Thor had declared tonight a mandatory drinking event, Bucky had begun to plan. Though the rest of the team had fallen in line with Thor’s agenda (he was a difficult man to say no to), Bucky had pled out on the grounds of being unfit for human company. A questioning glance at Steve was all it took to ensure that he too declined to join the all-Avengers outing. 

With the Tower to themselves, Bucky had commandeered the rec room. He’d wanted to give Steve time to adjust from Captain America mode to a more receptive state of mind. So he’d turned on the news and sat on the couch with his feet propped up on the world’s buffest piece of living furniture. 

Bucky knows it’s self-indulgent, that it’s as much to get himself into the right headspace as Steve. He’d never had much trouble turning Steve’s knees to water, making his eyelids flutter with need when they’d started things between them back in Brooklyn, a lifetime ago. But then, Bucky had been sure of what Steve wanted, sure as he was of his own name. Nowadays, he’s only 87% sure of his name, and he has no idea what Steve really wants.

Bucky picks up the remote and turns off the television. Steve’s head jerks up, just a fraction, but when Bucky mutters, “Did I say you could move?” Steve returns immediately to form.

Bucky slides his foot up Steve’s naked back and slips his toes under Steve’s leather collar, cinching it tight against Steve’s throat. Steve struggles to suck in air around the ball gag, and Bucky backs off. He doesn’t want to hurt Steve, no matter what Steve thinks this is about.

Putting both feet on the floor, Bucky perches on the edge of the sofa. He runs his left hand appreciatively over the solid muscle of Steve’s ass before delivering a smack. Despite how the metal must sting, Steve knows better than to move. “Good boy,” Bucky says, just to watch Steve tremble. 

With his right hand, he reaches under Steve to palm his cock. He’s hard, as Bucky knew he would be by now. Always impatient, wanting to rush in, his Steve. Not tonight, not while Bucky’s in charge. He’s too selfish not to use every moment Steve will give him. 

Bucky strokes Steve’s heavy cock, drinking in the involuntary shudders that shake Steve’s too-tight muscles. He leans back to swipe his metal fingers through the lube he’d set out, then nudges them against Steve’s ass. That provokes a sharp intake of breath from around the gag.

“Relax.” Bucky delivers another firm stroke to Steve’s cock. “You’ll get what you want.” He presses in three fingers to start, because he knows if he’s nice, if he makes this _easy_ , Steve won’t go as deep, won’t give up control the way he needs to sometimes. Bucky switches to feather-light touches against Steve’s belly, his thighs, his balls, as sweat starts to gather between Steve’s shoulder blades. 

Bucky screws his fingers in deeper, the lubed metal sliding slick against tight flesh. At last, the fingers are buried all the way. “Beautiful,” he whispers to Steve as he works his fingers in and out. He tries a few experimental thrusts that make Steve’s cock jump against his hand. Steve’s breathing hard now, sucking in air around his gag and likely holding back an orgasm by sheer force of will.

“All right.” Reluctantly, Bucky takes his hands away and wipes them on the towel hanging off the arm of the couch. He stands, hooks a finger under Steve’s collar to give it a sharp tug, then releases it. “Follow,” he says, and Steve crawls after him.

The collar is the only article of clothing Steve’s wearing, aside from the gag and the black cloth blindfold. Bucky had decided those accessories were necessary after the first time, when he’d had to endure all manner of apologies and questions and the relentless scrutiny of Steve’s eyes on him. The gag and blindfold let Bucky pretend Steve’s doing this because he wants to and not because he thinks it’s something Bucky needs, offering himself up as a rehabilitation aid like he’s a goddamn therapy dog.

When they reach their bedroom, Bucky leans down to grab Steve by the collar and guide him forward. He’d rearranged the room and brought in some equipment earlier, and Steve notices right away: he balks when he feels hardwood floor under his hands and knees instead of the rug that was there this morning. Soldiers’ instincts for assessing unfamiliar territory die hard, Bucky knows.

“What’s the matter?” Bucky asks. He gives it a minute, to see if there really is something spooking Steve, then spurs him on with a, “You scared?”

That gets Steve charging forward, as Bucky knew it would, the stubborn lout. He guides Steve onto the bench he’d brought it, settling Steve’s chest onto the padded surface. The metal restraints he clips around Steve’s wrists and the base of the bench are mostly for show. Bucky knows from experience that when he’s decided to be obedient, Steve will hold even the most uncomfortable position for as long as necessary. However, Bucky’s betting that these things—magnetized cuffs developed by Hydra—will allow Steve to let himself go, to forget about being so in control of himself, and just surrender. 

Bucky knows Steve can get there; he’s seen it before, a hundred times or more, in their other life together. But now, nothing seems to fit right. Steve obeys for Bucky like it’s a duty, but he never lets himself fall like he used to. Maybe tonight, Bucky can make it happen. If Bucky can make this work—this thing that has always been so easy between the two of them—then perhaps putting everything else to rights won’t be so impossible.

Bucky slaps Steve hard on the thigh until he spreads his knees further, baring himself to Bucky. A few stinging swats to Steve’s magnificent ass send him squirming, and it’s then that Steve notices that the restraints are actually holding him. He tugs against them once, hard, and when nothing gives, he freezes, every muscle tense. 

Bucky pets a hand down his flank, and he can feel Steve shaking. Quickly, he reaches up to unbuckle the gag. It’s a risk: he doesn’t want a lecture right now, or stoic reassurance, but he can’t proceed unless he knows Steve’s okay.

The gig hits the floor with a wet plop, and Steve’s breathing suddenly sounds much louder in the still room.

“All right?” Buck asks.

“Yes,” Steve says immediately.

Bucky sits back on his heels. “This doesn’t work if you lie to me.” He waits for a response, and when none is forthcoming, pushes to his feet.

“Wait.” Steve tries to follow, but the restraints hold fast. He settles back onto the bench and spreads his legs wide. “Keep going.”

Bucky sinks back down onto his knees, watching Steve closely. He’s breathing hard, flushed to the tips of his ears, and his cock swings between his legs, a heavy weight. Bucky drags his fingers down Steve’s back, tracing the outline of each muscle. “This is what you want?”

Steve licks his lips. “Yes,” he says faintly.

“Do you want out?”

Steve shakes his head against the bench. 

Bucky knows that stubborn set of Steve’s jaw, knows he won’t change his mind now no matter what Bucky says. Fine, then: time for a different tactic. “I can’t hear your head rattle, soldier,” Bucky snaps. “Do you want out or not?”

“No, sir!” Steve shouts. 

Bucky shoves a hand against Steve’s back to pin him, though he doesn’t need further restraint. The touch gives Steve a focus, something to steady him, or at least it used to. Buck shoves Steve’s legs further apart and kneels between them. In the next instant he’s shoving into Steve, riding him mercilessly. He wants every scrap of Steve’s attention in the here and now, not off somewhere mourning what they’ve both lost. 

He reaches beneath Steve to stroke him, hard and fast in time with Bucky’s thrusts. He can hear Steve’s gasps of pleasure beneath him, but Steve won’t relax, won’t surrender at all, not even when his hips jerk forward and he spills into Bucky’s hand. 

A few more thrusts and the tight aftershocks of Steve’s body wring Bucky’s climax from him. Even then, there’s a gnawing tightness in Bucky’s chest that doesn’t ease, even when he slumps, exhausted, against Steve.  
\--

Natasha holds perfectly still as wakefulness comes upon her in a rush. She holds her Asgardian ale better than some of the others—Clint had been losing to Tony at darts when she’d left the party—and she can’t have slept through someone disabling the Tower’s defenses, but—there. A quick assessment tells her that the mattress is sloping towards the foot of the bed. She stretches to nudge her toe against the dark shape curled up there, and receives an unintelligible grumble in reply. 

“Get up here.” She throws back the covers and waits. 

After a moment, Bucky crawls up the bed to settle on his side, back against Natasha’s, like sentries. His hair is damp, his chest bare. His skin is warm against Natasha’s back all the way up to the joint of his shoulder, and beyond that the cool metal leeches the heat from her skin. She can feel him shaking, tiny vibrations travelling along the mattress.

“What happened?” she asks. 

Bucky’s silent for a long time, but Natasha understands the value of patience. She remains turned away, dutifully guarding her side of the room. At last, a raspy whisper breaks the silence. “It’s not real.”

“Nightmare?” Natasha’s had her share of those, understands how they can linger long after waking. 

“No.”

Natasha anticipates his move, so she’s able to get upright and wrap her arms around his waist while he’s still got his feet on the floor, before he stands up to flee. He lets himself be caught and slumps back against her.

“What’s not real?” she asks. There are things, Natasha knows, that can only be said in the darkness, and she and Bucky are enough alike for her to know they won’t talk about this in the morning.

“Him. Us.”

Steve. Perhaps Thor’s plan for giving those two some alone time hadn’t been as ingenious as it seems. “What’s not real?” she asks again.

Bucky slumps further in her grip. “I’m a mission to him.” 

“Everything’s a mission to him.”

That, at least, wrings a hoarse chuckle out of him. He half-turns towards her to fix his eyes on a spot somewhere near the headboard. “Not just a mission, Nat. An enemy. He doesn’t trust me.”

“Oh, James.” She rubs a hand over her belly, on the left, where the Winter Soldier’s bullet passed through her and left a permanent reminder. Steve has his own souvenirs, though his didn’t scar the same way, lucky super soldier bastard. She sees Bucky’s eyes follow her movement. “You and I both know it can take the body some time to catch up with the mind.”

“Yeah.” He gives her a shove. “Scoot over.” 

Natasha resumes her vigil on the far side of the bed, and Bucky presses his back to hers. She stays until she hears his breathing even out into sleep.  
\--

Steve wakes up alone. That isn’t so unusual, but something about Bucky’s absence makes the room feel especially empty today. Or perhaps it’s just the tension that has found a home in the pit of Steve’s stomach since Project Insight. Ignoring the too-early hour, Steve pushes himself out of bed and heads to the team gym on the 91st floor.

Steve doesn’t need to wrap his hands, technically, but he likes the ritual of it. He has few enough quiet moments alone with his thoughts. And this morning his thoughts all swirl around one subject: Bucky.

For a while there, last night had felt like old times: an easy intimacy he remembered too well. But towards the end, he’d held back, hadn’t let himself feel it like he used to. It isn’t falling, the way Bucky always describes it. For Steve, it’s more like a golden glow, a vast cloud of warm light expanding out above him into infinity. All Steve would have had to do was reach up, and he’d be flying: protected, safe, and euphoric. 

But he hadn’t. It didn’t seem fair, letting himself go that way when it wasn’t about him. Whatever Bucky needs to do to work through what’s happened, Steve can take. But that doesn’t mean Bucky needs him, or even wants him the way he used to.

Steve drags a punching bag out of the ever-present pile, hangs it from the chain in the corner, and begins swinging away, determined to work out some of his simmering frustration. It feels good to do something simple: jab at a target he can hit. This he can do, even if nothing else in his life lines up the way it used to. 

With Bucky, he used to fit perfectly. Bucky had known how to handle Steve since forever. Like in Steve’s room in Brooklyn, when Bucky had tied Steve’s skinny wrists behind the chair with a dishrag and played with Steve’s cock until he cried and begged. And afterwards they’d sprawled out on Steve’s narrow bed in the sticky August heat. He hadn’t felt the burning in his chest from exerting himself too hard, or the gnawing hunger than was always with him. The two of them had just been quiet and floaty, at peace.

Or in a shelled-out French village with Dugan and Morita on guard, when Bucky shoved Steve against the door of a stall in a deserted barn. He’d wrapped Steve’s hands around the bars and whispered, “Don’t let go, and don’t make any noise,” then proceeded to spank Steve’s bared ass until he was gripping the bars white-knuckled with his cock straining impatiently against his belly. After they’d both come, lying there in the straw, Steve had felt the trigger-wire tension he’d been carrying dissipate like smoke in the crisp fall air.

When they’d been young, Steve had known how to let go. Even when he’d just come up to Bucky’s chin, it hadn’t been a defeat to follow Bucky’s orders. Steve has never backed down from a fight in his life, but with Bucky, it was different. It was his choice. Later, when Bucky couldn’t have overpowered Steve on his best day with the rest of the Howlies to back him up, it made no difference. Steve wanted to submit, wanted Bucky to take him in hand, and Steve followed orders like the good soldier he’d never really been.

But last night, feeling those restraints hold him, really hold him, Steve had felt a moment of real panic, banishing the warm glow of surrender. He hadn’t been prepared to be helpless, because he hadn’t decided he wanted to be. He knows that, now that he’s taken a moment to consider what he’s actually doing. Knowing that and realizing he’d played along anyway, pretending to submit when he hadn’t thought about what that would mean for him, what he wanted from Bucky, why he hasn’t been able to fix things—

A vicious punch sends the bag rocketing off its chain to crash into the wall. He turns with a sigh to retrieve another bag only to find Natasha watching him. Her hands are wrapped for sparring, her face unreadable. 

“Morning,” Steve says carefully. 

He’s never seen her up this early; normally his first glimpse of Natasha is pounding espressos in the communal kitchen around lunchtime. She doesn’t say anything, but she ducks under the ropes into the sparring ring and turns to raise an eyebrow at him. 

Feeling a definite sense of pre-emptive regret, Steve follows her into the ring. 

Natasha delivers a mocking bow, then immediately darts in to land an uppercut to Steve’s jaw followed by a sharp kick to his left side. She easily dances out of the way of his return punch. 

Another kick follows to the back of Steve’s knee, and before he can regain his balance, a punch connects with his cheek, sending him stumbling back two steps. He plants his feet and whirls around to find Natasha waiting for him with her fists up. 

Usually when they spar, it’s to help Natasha practice techniques for a quick takedown, or to help Steve learn to counter covert strikes. This time, Natasha is staying just out of Steve’s reach, darting in to deliver a quick blow or two before dodging retaliation. She’s agile enough to avoid his attacks, but not strong enough to incapacitate him. Still, he can’t land a hit, and she knows it. He sees the corner of her mouth quirk up into a smirk, and the part of him that got his ass kicked in so many back alleys fans a little flame of anger.

With a fluid bob, Natasha slides past his guard again and scores a jab right in the gut, ducking under his defensive swing, and then retreats again. Steve can’t figure it out. If she really wanted to take him down, she wouldn’t have wasted the element of surprise. And besides, this kind of fight isn’t Natasha’s style. Soon, she’ll start to tire, and then—Yes, there. 

Natasha’s foot slips on a too-hasty retreat, and she stumbles. Steve charges forward, eager to put an end to this. Too late he sees Natasha drop and brace herself perfectly for a throw that uses Steve’s momentum to flip him. He crashes onto his back, his breath leaving him in a whoosh. 

Natasha pounces onto him with one knee on each side, pinning his center of gravity. “Stay down.”

With a growl, Steve tries to shove her off, but she dives forward, head-butting him hard enough to send his skull bouncing off the mat.

“I said stay _down_.” She slams his wrists against the mat and settles her weight on his chest. 

He doesn’t try to throw her off again. Despite how annoyed he is right now, Natasha looks downright angry, and that doesn’t happen often. “What is this?”

“Listen to me, Rogers.” She leans in close enough to whisper over the whir of the room’s air conditioning. “If you’re just playing along because you think it will help him somehow, you have to stop.”

“What--?” Steve begins. When she narrows her eyes at him, it clicks into place. “Bucky.”

“If it is not real to you, if you don’t trust him enough to be honest, then leave him alone.”

“I’m not—“ Steve starts to protest, but trails off when the words start to penetrate. He thinks of Bucky in the shower last night, closed-off and monosyllabic. “Is he all right?”

Natasha’s already bruising grip tightens. “Power isn’t about what you can take, Steve. It’s about what you’re willing to give. You used to get that.” 

With that, she releases Steve’s hands, rolls backwards and hops to her feet. After brushing off her sweats—barely rumpled--she extends a hand, which Steve gratefully accepts to help him up. 

Behind Natasha, Steve catches sight of Clint and Bruce standing in the doorway, eyes wide. “Jarvis,” Clint calls. “Please tell me you got video of that takedown.”  
\--

Normally a night out with Thor ensures that Stark Tower will be quiet for the next few days while everyone nurses their hangovers, but today everyone receives a text informing them Natasha requires their presence at karaoke night in Brooklyn. It produces a lot of grumbling, none of which is actually directed at Natasha.

Bucky’s camped out on the couch in the rec room, pretending to watch the news, but mostly listening to Tony complain as Nat hustles him out the door. When Steve appears in the doorway, Bucky tenses. He’s expecting a fight, he realizes. He even dressed for it—still outfitted for a planned workout with Thor that was called on account of karaoke. Bucky studiously continues to pretend to watch the news, though of course the moment Steve walks in, nothing else seems important. 

Steve watches him in silence through an entire story on wildfires before walking up, plucking the remote off the arm of the couch, and turning off the TV. Still Bucky finds himself rooted to the spot, unable to look at him.

Steve steps in front of the couch and sinks to his knees in front of Bucky. And _that_ makes Bucky look at last, meeting Steve’s determined gaze. Really seeing him up close, his eyes clear and intense, makes Bucky wonder why he ever thought it was a good idea to blindfold him. 

Steve nudges in between Bucky’s legs and crosses his arms across Bucky’s thighs. “I…” He takes a breath and begins again. “Listen, I’m sorry.” His gaze slides off to the side, and he ducks his head against his arms. Bucky recognizes that labored breathing, a grown-up cousin to the wheezing of a skinny Brooklyn kid trying to wrestle his emotions under control so he wasn’t caught crying. 

“Come here.” Bucky tucks his hands under Steve’s arms and pulls. Steve comes willingly, planting his knees on either side of Bucky’s hips and burying his face against Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky tugs him closer, holding him like he did when Steve fit into his lap more neatly. “We don’t have to do this,” he says, though the thought of never seeing Steve shaking to pieces beneath him has Bucky bracing for the answer like it’s a bullet.

“I’d miss it,” Steve says. “I was thinking today, how you’ve always known how to give me what I need.”

Bucky huffs a humorless laugh against Steve’s hair. “I don’t know if that’s still true.”

Steve pushes back to look Bucky in the eye. “I’m ready to find out.”

“Steve…” Bucky thinks of Steve on the hellicarrier dropping his shield: the bravery it took to stand defenseless before the Winter Soldier, who’d just _shot_ him, with total faith that he could get through to Bucky. The least he can give Steve is the same benefit of the doubt. “I’m trusting you to tell me if you don’t like something, or if you want to stop.”

“I’m not made of glass.”

“I didn’t say I was going to be _nice_.”

That wins a smile from Steve, a small quirk of his lips that makes Bucky’s eyes fix on his mouth. “Good.”

Bucky settles his hands on Steve’s shoulders, holds him still so he can really make sure Steve sees him. “I would do anything you want,” he says. “Anything. You know that, don’t you?”

Steve blinks, as if that hadn’t been blatantly obvious since Bucky agreed to move into this corporate death trap of a tower, but then he nods. “I get the picture.”

“Come on, then.” He dumps Steve off his lap in a flurry of indignant protests, and races for the elevator. He’s already got the button pressed when Steve skids into the car just as the doors are closing. Bucky keeps Steve’s mouth thoroughly occupied with a hungry kiss until the doors ping open again on the 91st floor. He tugs Steve along by the wrist. 

“This isn’t the way to our quarters,” Steve points out.

“Well observed, soldier.” Bucky tugs him to a stop in front of the mirrored wall by the free weights at the far end of the gym. “Strip,” he orders, then walks away, leaving Steve no chance to argue. 

When he returns with his arms full of supplies, he’s pleasantly surprised to find Steve naked, at attention, with his back to the mirror, his hands clasped at his side and his clothes neatly folded in a pile on the floor. 

Bucky dumps his supplies on a table out of Steve’s line of sight, then walks a slow circuit around Steve, looking him up and down. “Good.” He reaches out to brush two fingers down Steve’s spine, and doesn’t miss the tremor that follows his touch. Taking hold of Steve’s shoulders, he turns him to face the mirror, and briefly has the pleasure of watching Steve try to stay at attention without seeing his reflection.

“Look.” Bucky trails his hand from Steve’s collarbone down to the hollow of his hip and back up, watching Steve’s eyes follow. “Now, eye contact.” Steve’s eyes meet his in the mirror. Bucky shakes his head and pushes Steve’s chin up with a finger until his eyes meet those of his own reflection. “Good. Stay.”

Bucky steps around Steve and sinks to his knees, which puts Steve’s half-hard cock at eye level. He gives it an assessing tug, lets go, and watches hungrily as it bobs free. Steve’s hands clench at his sides, but he doesn’t look away. He’s in good-soldier mode now, Bucky can see it. That means he can still think too hard. 

In one quick movement, Bucky swallows as much of Steve as he can. There’s a stifled gasp from above. Smiling around his mouthful, Bucky sets to work bringing Steve to full hardness. Every twitch and moan he mentally records for later. If this works, he’ll be taking Steve apart often in the future, and he intends to become the leading expert on the subject, as proficient with Steve’s body as he is with any other weapon.

Bucky chances a glance up to see Steve flushed a healthy pink, the blush running down his neck to color his chest. His jaw is clenched, but his eyes are wide open. Better. Not so in control of himself. Bucky presses a kiss to the hollow of Steve’s hip, then gives his hardened cock one more sloppy lick before pushing to his feet. “Touch yourself,” he instructs. 

Steve’s hand immediately finds his cock, and he starts up a slow, steady rhythm.

“How does that feel?”

Steve gulps in a breath. “Fine.”

“Just fine?” Bucky grins. “You look beautiful.” He presses a quick kiss to Steve’s cheek before stopping by his supply table. He lets himself linger for a moment watching Steve watch himself, his eyes fluttering half-shut as tension bleeds out of his shoulders. 

Bucky strolls back to stand behind him. “You’re doing so well.” Bucky folds his hand over Steve’s and slows his touch.

“Not like I’m hard on the eyes.”

“Maybe I should have used the gag after all,” Bucky says, surprised to find that it’s just a joke. He’d forgotten the fun of finding ways to make Steve lose his sass.

With a booted foot, he nudges Steve’s feet apart, first one, then the other. He does it again, then again, until Steve’s bare feet are planed about twice shoulder-width apart. A quick glance at the mirror verifies that Steve has abandoned his orders to keep his eyes on himself in favor of watching Bucky, but he doesn’t offer a reprimand just yet. Let Steve wonder what he’s planning.

Bucky pulls a piece of chalk from his pocket, scavenged from the box by the parallel bars. He squats beside Steve and outlines a small circle around Steve’s left foot. Then he shifts to the other side and repeats the procedure. When he straightens up, Steve is watching his reflection with unabashed curiosity. “Taking up drawing, Buck?”

“Nope.” Grinning, Bucky drops the chalk in his pocket, takes out the jar of lube, and starts slicking his fingers. “I’ll leave the art to you. These are just reminders.”

“Of?” Steve asks.

“Consequences.”

Steve’s eyes widen slightly at that, and Bucky takes the opportunity to trace two slick fingers around the rim of Steve’s hole.

Steve braces his hands against his thighs, his fingers leaving dents in the muscle.

“Are you going to behave, Steve?”

Steve rocks back against Bucky’s touch, but Bucky moves with him, his fingers a relentless tease at Steve’s entrance. 

“Bucky,” Steve warns. 

Steve didn’t offer a snarky comeback this time: a good sign he’s started to focus. When he can’t talk at all, then they’ll be getting somewhere. “Are you going to do what I say?” Bucky asks.

Again Steve tries to squirm back against him, but Bucky rides it out. Between Steve’s legs, his cock twitches. 

“Well?”

“Yes, fine, yes.”

Bucky pants his metal hand on Steve’s shoulder to steady him as he plunges two fingers inside. Steve grunts and goes up on his toes, writhing on Bucky’s hand. 

“Careful.” Bucky leans in to whisper in Steve’s ear. “If you step outside the lines, you don’t get to come tonight.”

Steve’s protests degenerate into a strangled moan as Bucky fucks his fingers into Steve in earnest, angling for the spot he knows will make Steve shake and sputter. In less than a minute Steve is gasping for air, gripping his thighs in a desperate bid to stand firm against Bucky’s onslaught. When Bucky feels Steve pushing back against his hand, he shows mercy, slowing to just the barest movement of his fingers while Steve catches his breath.

“See?” Bucky presses a kiss to Steve’s shoulder. “You behave, you get rewarded.”

“You… call that… a reward?” Steve pants.

Bucky grins at him in the mirror. “You do, too.”

At Steve’s answering grin, Bucky feels a swell of triumph. He retreats to his supply table and returns with a coil of rope, commandeered from the rock wall. Steve’s grin slips a little when he sees it.

“It’s all right.” Bucky pets his hands down both of Steve’s arms before drawing Steve’s elbows together behind his back. He works efficiently, weaving rope and tying knots starting at the wrists. “This is just regular old nylon. It’s strong, rated for climbing, but not super soldier strong. Try it.” Bucky holds the knot he’s working on. 

Steve flexes just enough to feel the give, then nods. The wariness in his eyes fades. He’ll be able to get free, if he wants to. 

Bucky continues his work. “Unless you really make an effort, this should hold. You can struggle if you need to.” Bucky finishes tying the last knot right below Steve’s elbow. “Besides, I’m doing you a favor: removing the temptation to touch yourself without permission.”

“Gee, thanks,” Steve says dryly. “But I’d prefer to skip any more favors.”

“Suit yourself.” Bucky grins as he gives Steve a gentle shove. Steve wobbles, but manages to keep his feet on the ground and within their chalk circles. 

“Son of a—“

“Ah, careful.” Bucky catches Steve by the hips to steady him, taking the chance to press his confined erection to Steve’s ass so Steve will know how much he’s enjoying himself. “If you don’t behave, we’ll stop. Is that what you want?”

“No.” Steve meets his gaze in the mirror, slightly glassy-eyed.

“What do you want?”

Steve licks his lips, but doesn’t answer. Bucky slides one warm metal finger inside Steve and curves it unerringly. Steve shudders, and his mouth drops open. Bucky keeps rubbing his finger just there until Steve’s legs begin to shake. He pulls away reluctantly. “What do you want, Steve?”

Steve’s mouth opens and closes, and he doesn’t take his eyes off Bucky. 

“Do you want me to fuck you?”

Steve lets out a strangled moan.

“Do you want me to open you up and make you beg for it?” He grinds against Steve’s ass, watching Steve continually try to form words and devolve into groans instead. “You want me to pound into you until you scream, until your body burns from it and you can’t remember anything else in the world except me being inside you?” 

“Please,” Steve gasps. 

“Soon,” Bucky promises. He pushes firmly on Steve’s shoulder and bends him forward until his chest is parallel to the floor. Steve’s legs are starting to shake from holding the awkward position. “One more thing, then you’ll get yours. Just hold still.”

Bucky steps back to get the proper distance. The sight before him—Steve bound and spread for the taking—sends adrenaline flooding his system: the thrill of a victory within sight. He’s almost there. This time he just might be able to give Steve what he needs.

His hand comes down once, hard, rocking Steve forward precariously. A pink handprint blooms against Steve’s pale skin. 

Steve curses under his breath, but he doesn’t move from where he’s been put. 

Bucky spanks him again, on the other cheek this time: a matched pair of claims. Then he begins raining down blows in earnest, turning Steve’s ass and thighs a glowing pink, then vibrant red. When he glances up, he catches Steve staring at the mirror, watching Bucky work. Under his raw, sore hand, Bucky feels rather than sees the moment when Steve lets himself go under, relaxing into the blows, effortlessly obedient. He locks eyes with Bucky in the mirror, face open and desperate.

Bucky fumbles with his pants, freeing his cock in record time. He lines himself up, gripping Steve’s hip with his metal hand while he pushes in. Steve goes up on his toes, then rocks back against Bucky, seeking more. Bucky can’t deny him. 

As he slams into Steve, his awareness narrows to the heat of Steve’s body against his, the encouraging, desperate sounds Steve is making, and the fierce arousal burning through Bucky’s blood, spurring him on. His body feels too large for his skin, his nerves too sensitive, sparking pleasure to his brain in an ever-expanding loop. Only his grip on Steve keeps him grounded.

This is the best part, always: watching Steve come apart under his hands and letting himself be taken away and subsumed, just for one moment, into pleasure. Bucky’s hand finds Steve’s cock, hot and straining, and lets it slide through the tunnel of Bucky’s fist as he slams into Steve. In the mirror, Steve’s eyes catch and hold his. Bucky’s never seen anything that startlingly, blindingly blue. 

Steve shouts and bucks as he comes, slamming back against Bucky and knocking him over the edge. Bucky’s climax hits him like the first rush of air jumping out of a plane. Steve squeezes around him, reminding Bucky, as always, of his direction. Pleasure shudders through him, so fierce Bucky swears they’ve created an arc between them, something shining and hot that burns the last vestiges of conscious thought away and short-circuits his muscles.

Bucky’s still catching his breath when Steve’s legs give out, and he falls away from Bucky as if in slow motion. 

Even wiped out as he is, Bucky’s fast enough to catch Steve with an arm around his waist. He eases Steve to the floor and slumps beside him. The knife in his boot makes short work of Steve’s bindings, and he makes a note to replace the supplies before anyone asks about them. Once unbound, Steve collapses, dead weight against the tile floor. 

“Steve.” Bucky nudges his shoulder. “Steve?” For a moment, Bucky panics, sure Steve’s been injured somehow, that there’s something wrong he should have noticed, that Steve’s having some kind of an episode, like the old asthma attacks come back to haunt him—but then Steve mutters and clutches at Bucky’s hand. 

Not hurt, then, just subverbal. 

Bucky smiles, savoring his victory. He tucks his body alongside Steve’s, taking pleasure in Steve’s complete, boneless relaxation, as if the stack of cares he usually shoulders has melted off him. This is what it’s meant to feel like, Bucky remembers. A small piece of his lost self clicks into place, like a dislocated joint reset: good, but still tinged with the memory of pain.

Bucky presses his face to Steve’s sweat-damp temple and breathes in. He whispers to Steve, which is as close as he gets to praying nowadays, "Thank you."


End file.
